


Hey, Lolita, Hey

by Saucery



Series: The Genderfuck Collection [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Amorality, Antagonism, Authority Figures, Bad Touch, Badwrong, Bratting, Breasts, Condoms, Consent Issues, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cunnilingus, DILFs, Daddy Issues, Depraved, Dirty Talk, Disturbing Themes, Experienced Stiles Stilinski, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Filthy, Finger Sucking, Flirting, Forbidden, Genderswap, Headmasters, Het, Inappropriate Behavior, Lapdance, Lust, Misconceptions About Body Image, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Nipples, Opposites Attract, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, Porn, Power Imbalance, Private School, Promiscuity, Sassy Stiles, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Snark, Statutory Rape, Suit Kink, Suit Porn, Suit Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing, Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, Triggers, Underage Sex, Uniform Kink, Uniforms, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is: a) a girl, b) a delinquent, and c) more than Rafael McCall can handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey, Lolita, Hey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exiled-one](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=exiled-one).



> The title is from Lana Del Rey's song, [Lolita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlHa6yfdCSE).

* * *

 

Stiles is beginning to suspect she’s an asshole magnet, because all the assholes in the school have it in for her—from Derek, who embodies the jock stereotype so perfectly that he might have stepped out of an eighties high school movie, to Peter, the new Chemistry teacher, who had seemed like an improvement on Harris until he’d turned out to be even creepier, and Rafael, the worst of the bunch, whose status as headmaster gives him all the power in the world to abuse.

None of them have done anything to her, but they don’t have to. It’s obvious what they want. What’s annoying is that they are, admittedly, kind of sexy, and the fact that their eyes follow her wherever she goes is both unnerving and… and useful to remember, when she’s in her bed at night, touching herself. It gets her off, knowing that the thought of her doing this to herself probably gets _them_ off. Maybe she’s as much of a pervert as they are. Or maybe she just has a thing for older men.

Scott, who is her brother in all but name, has no idea that his estranged dad is a third of the Unholy Trinity that Stiles uses as fantasy material. She’s determined to keep it that way. It’s difficult to, though, when Rafael summons her to his office on every little pretext, for every minor incident of delinquency, using the smallest excuses to put her in her place.

Okay, so scratching his Porsche and causing hundreds of dollars worth of damage to his car wasn’t that small of an excuse. Or even an excuse, at all. Even a normal, non-pervy headmaster would call her in for that.

And it’s not like Stiles was giving him a valid reason to punish her. Honestly. It isn’t.

When she’s told to see the headmaster after school, she isn’t surprised. She considers not going, leaving Rafael to stew in his anger, but a part of her _wants_ to see him angry, wants to see him pissed off, the way he inexplicably pisses her off.

So she goes.

It’s 3 p.m. and the school is emptying rapidly, and Ms. Langham, the headmaster’s secretary, is getting antsy. She must have plans, because she alternates between glancing at her wristwatch and glaring at Stiles, who’s perched in a plastic chair outside Rafael’s office. Stiles just regards her steadily; Stiles might be why Langham’s late for whatever she’s late for, but it’s not like Stiles gives a crap.

Eventually, a boy Stiles vaguely recalls from the lacrosse team trudges out of the office, sullen and put-out, and exits without greeting Stiles or Langham.

Shortly, Rafael sticks his head out of his door addresses Ms. Langham. “You should go, Veronica. Don’t you have that ballet class you have to take your daughter to?”

“Are you sure?” Ms. Langham says, clearly grateful for the excuse to escape, but pretending at professionalism. “Miss Stilinski…”

“Miss Stilinski,” Rafael says, “will be going soon, anyway.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. McCall,” Langham gushes, retrieving her purse and hurrying out. “I appreciate this.”

She departs, and Stiles is left with Rafael. It occurs to Stiles, with a frisson of mingled fear and anticipation, that she’s alone with a man who wants to fuck her.

He’s taller than she is. Stronger than she is.

She _should_ be terrified, but instead, she feels much as she does before shoplifting or vandalizing. How ironic, that her headmaster should have the same effect on her that law-breaking does. But won’t he be the one breaking the law? If he has her?

That’s intriguing. Very, very intriguing. There could be a way for Stiles to come out of this on top. So to speak. Despite her horrible reputation, she’s the Chief Justice’s daughter, and if she’s assaulted by the evil, exploitative Rafael McCall, she can have him thrown out of his job… and into jail.

Who’ll have the power, then?

She smirks at Rafael, and he jerks his chin at Stiles. “Come in.”

Stiles gets up and walks past him into his office, lugging her bag behind her on the plush, gray-green carpet. The furnishings have a mahogany-and-crystal theme, as they ought to, given that this is the most expensive private school on the West Coast.

Rafael’s desk is a hulk of gold-flecked granite, obsessively neat, a pile of papers arranged at ninety-degree angles to the designer fountain pens in their revolving, ornamental stand. Elaborately framed certificates line the walls, just as polished trophies and awards line the shelves, gleaming in the tastefully warm light from the chandelier overhead. There’s a vase of orange orchids on a side-table, with a card still on it, likely a gesture of… gratitude… from the parent of some troublemaking student or other. Stiles has no doubt that a sizable donation must have accompanied the flowers.

The attention to detail is ridiculous. It’s as though the office is a stage, with the decorations as its props and Rafael as its star. The neatness and preciseness of the placement of each object mirrors the neatness and preciseness of Rafael himself, from his form-fitting Armani suit to his silver tie-pin and matching cufflinks.

God, he’s such an asshole. Stiles itches to take him down a peg or two, make a wreck of him, until his fake authority melts away under the heat of lust.

Stiles catches a glimpse of herself in the glass paneling—her hair fashioned into a punk-style undercut, with an inverted cross dangling from an ear while the other ear sports studs. Mascara thickens her lashes and cherry lip-gloss makes her full lips even fuller, while her figure is all lean, slender limbs and subtle curves. She resembles a sapling, not quite matured, but that’s what Rafael likes, isn’t it?

“Have a seat, Ms. Stilinski,” Rafael says as he sits on his grand leather chair, a king resplendent on his throne. His tone is bland and businesslike, none of the rage Stiles was looking forward to.

Oh, she’ll get him riled up. Stiles sits opposite him, lifting her feet and plonking her shoes on the edge of his desk. The angle makes her already short skirt hike up her thighs; she’s positive that Rafael can see her panties.

Rafael’s eyes narrow. “Your uniform isn’t as per the regulations.”

“Then why don’t you come over here and _regulate_ me?”

Rafael glares at her. “Take your shoes off my desk.”

“No.” Stiles smiles at him brightly. “What’re you gonna do, spank me?”

“I could tell your father about your ongoing impertinence.”

“And what will that accomplish? He doesn’t give a shit about me.”

“Is that why you continue to disobey the rules? To get your father’s attention?”

“Is that why you continue to ogle me? Because you want to take advantage of my daddy issues?” Stiles lets a leg fall to the side, off the desk, and hooks it over the arm of her chair, the softness of her inner thighs on display. “I bet you wanna hear me call you ‘Daddy,’ huh?”

Rafael’s gaze snaps up to her face, because it had been drawn, like a magnet, to the flesh she’d bared. “You’re impossible,” he growls.

“On the contrary, I’m very, _very_ possible. I could show you how much.” Stiles runs a finger along the elastic of her plain white cotton panties, and shivers theatrically.

A vein throbs visibly in Rafael’s forehead. “I’m not interested in the clumsy seductions of a child.”

“Yeah? So why can’t you look away from me?”

“Because you might set the school on fire if I don’t keep an eye on you.”

“That was an accident! I didn’t actually intend to burn the school down, just Harris’s lab coat.”

“Thank heavens for the sprinkler system.”

“Don’t front, I know you were staring at me when I got soaked and you could see my bra through my shirt.”

Rafael pinched the bridge of his nose. “We haven’t even gotten around to what you did to my car.”

“I just did to your car what I want to do to you.”

“And that is?”

“Leave scratches on you. On your back. On your ass, even, if you don’t give it to me hard enough.”

Rafael appears temporarily frozen, but then he unfreezes and scowls at Stiles. “You, young lady—”

“Young _lady_? What are you, an eighteenth-century schoolmaster?”

“You’re obscene, offensive and out of control.”

“Just the way you like me.” Stiles flashes him a cheeky grin. “So, are you going to get me _under_ control, or should I go?”

“You have detention with Professor Hale for the rest of the week.”

Stiles yawns, arching her back so that her blouse stretches over her breasts. “Damn, I’m bored. You’re an awful disciplinarian, Mr. McCall, opting for detentions when you could have spankings. And you do know Peter wants in my pants, don’t you?”

Rafael pauses. “What?” he says, quietly, dangerously, his eyebrows lowering.

Stiles shivers for real, this time. “I’m not saying this to get him fired—I sorta enjoy his attention—but still.”

“So he hasn’t abused you.” Rafael relaxes. “You must be imagining his… attention.”

“Like I’m imagining yours?”

“Whatever delusions you’re harboring about me, Miss Stilinski, they will not help you improve your academic record, nor will they get you into a decent university.”

Stiles shrugs. “My dad’ll buy me a place in Harvard. Or Berkeley. Or wherever. Why should I bother acting like I’m nice when I’m a naughty, naughty girl?”

She rises and crosses over to where Rafael’s sitting; he’s immobile, eyes wide and stunned, as she settles in his lap. He raises his hands to shove her off, but they hover before her, like they dare not touch her, lest they never stop touching.

It’s a victory, because it proves she was right, and Stiles _loves_ being right. Especially when it’s about something so, so wrong. Rafael’s legs are all tensed muscle under her ass, her knees resting on either side of them.

An emotion very like terror flashes across Rafael’s features, before being subsumed by—god, yes—rage.

Rafael’s hands whip out to grab her wrists. “You genuinely believe you can get away with everything, don’t you?” he hisses, his grip bruisingly tight.

“Can’t I?” Stiles grinds her hips slowly, rocking them on Rafael’s lap. She’s seen strippers do this on YouTube videos, and she wonders if a mere lapdance will get Rafael off, if he’ll cream his pants like those stupid, pre-ejaculating boys Stiles entertains herself with, sometimes. She hopes he lasts longer—long enough to get her off, too.

“You’re on your headmaster’s _lap_.”

“But his lap likes it.” That’s an erection under her, isn’t it? It’s gotta be.

“You think I don’t know you’re searching for a way to get me kicked out?”

“I’d never try to outwit a teacher,” Stiles says, mock-earnestly. “But I mightn’t get you kicked out if you make it worth my while.”

“Worth your while,” Rafael echoes, as if hypnotized. His grasp on her wrists loosens.

Stiles frees herself, and takes Rafael’s hand in her own, guiding it down to where her panties are getting damp. Rafael’s breath hitches at the feel of them. “Don’t tell me you haven’t wanted to get me wet,” she whispers into his ear, “since you first saw me.” She lets go of him. “Here’s your chance.”

For a moment, Stiles worries she’s miscalculated—that he’ll boot her out—but then, Rafael’s hand is in her panties, gentle and implacable at once, pen-callused fingertips spreading her labia open.

Stiles gasps, clutching at Rafael’s ludicrously broad shoulders. He knows, oh, he _knows_ how it works; he’s been fucking women for more years than Stiles has been alive, and it shows. He just teases her increasingly moist inner labia, rubbing back and forth, back and forth, not penetrating her, until she’s leaking in her panties, sticky strings dripping down to his knuckles. She can feel how drenched she’s getting, and she hates how she’s beginning to tremble, all over, like she’s going into shock.

“It’s frightening, isn’t it?” Rafael murmurs, a foreign darkness in his voice. “How good it is? Has anyone really made you come, before?”

“Y-yeah,” she lies. “Bet you couldn’t, though.”

Rafael chuckles, an infuriating, knowing cast to his expression. When he starts thumbing her clit, she cries out, her entire body jackknifing, briefly dislodging his thumb before it returns, patient as ever, flicking at her clit again, and again, and again.

She pants, black dots dancing in her vision, sweat prickling on her clammy skin. Her nipples are trapped in the confines of her bra, sensitive against the scratchy lace, and she wants Rafael to suck on them, so suddenly and desperately that she scrabbles at the buttons of her shirt.

When she gets it off, she reaches back to unhook her bra, but Rafael says, “No, don’t,” hoarse and uneven.

“Got a lingerie fetish?” Stiles says, laughing breathlessly until Rafael _presses_ her clit, viciously and vengefully, and she’s coming, just like that, forgetting to muffle her scream. Everything goes white as she spasms, overwhelmed, and it goes on and on, in sweet, burning waves that crash through her, leaving her limp and quivering.

“Jesus,” Rafael is saying, “ _Jesus_ ,” and the next thing she’s aware of is Rafael surging up, lifting her effortlessly onto his desk.

It’s like she doesn’t weigh anything, like he could pick her up and throw her onto a bed, or slam her against a wall, carry her from one room to another, his dick still inside her, fucking her as he holds her up.

The pictures blur in Stiles’s imagination, and while there is a lovely, golden lassitude pooling in her, there’s also a spark waiting to be reignited, her nerves buzzing with awakened desire, with the knowledge of what it’s like to come during sex—to “really” come, like Rafael had said, not just getting herself off after a boy’s done with his five minutes of glory.

She wants to come again. She _can_ come again. This time, with a cock in her.

So Stiles kicks off her shoes and socks, wriggling out of her panties, letting them drop onto the carpet. Her skirt rucks up around her waist as she folds her legs backward and spreads them, exposing herself completely.

Rafael sways at the sight of her, like it’s more than he can bear.

It occurs to Stiles that she should be shy, but to hell with shyness; she can tell that she’s flushing, but it damn sure ain’t a blush. She doesn’t do shy. What she _does_ do is brazen, and she does it well.

The fingers Rafael was caressing her with are slick, shiny, and Stiles draws them into her mouth, tasting herself, all salt and musk. Rafael snarls, dragging his fingers out of her mouth and kissing her, messy and hot, biting at her lips until they sting, only shifting to bite her neck. It’s like he’s furious with her, like he’s _punishing_ her—

“Yeah,” Stiles says, shuddering. “Mark me. You must be so hard it hurts, and you wanna make me hurt, too, don’t you? I could blow you, let you choke me with your cock till I’m drooling around it. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Me, hiding under your desk, with you shooting down my throat?”

“Where the—” Rafael blinks at her, nonplussed. The dirty talk must’ve been accurate, given how red he is. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“Porn, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Should I write you a list of the boys I’ve slept with? That could be my homework, if you like, but I’ll need a couple of days.”

Rafael frowns, but Stiles doesn’t want to derail the proceedings with his petty jealousy, so she distracts him by flipping her bra up, revealing her breasts. She doesn’t take the bra off, since Rafael had said not to—and besides, having it partly on is delightfully sinful.

“C’mon,” she says, cupping her breasts. They’re small, but there are plenty of guys who like that, who like how her puffy nipples are so soft and pink and tender atop her tiny breasts, who like how they make her seem even younger, even more tempting. “You ignored these. Isn’t that, like, poor form?”

“There’s no standard procedure for this type of situation, Stiles,” Rafael says, amused.

“Hey, you just said my name! Awesome. You know what else is awesome? Nipples.” Stiles plays with her own nipples, for a while, one-handed, while the other hand wanders between her legs, where she’s still deliciously slippery. “Mm,” she says, and Rafael curses, his dick tenting his fine woolen trousers.

“You’re a test nobody could pass,” he mutters, before bending forward to exhale over her nipples. They’re stiff already, and they only get stiffer when Rafael brushes his lips over them, so lightly that it almost tickles, that it makes Stiles squirm.

“Quit it,” she complains. “L-lick ’em properly.”

“There’s nothing proper about you,” Rafael says, and licks a nipple, so delicately that it’s intolerable. Stiles tangles her fingers in Rafael’s hair, urging him nearer, but he deliberately doesn’t take the hint, the bastard. He sucks only at the very tips of her nipples, withdrawing to breathe on them, every now and then, to _look_ at them, and he repeats the process until she’s writhing, bolts of electricity thrilling up her spine, shorting out her brain.

Rafael abandons her chest, and Stiles mewls, startling herself, because she’s never—she’s never made noises like that. She sounds scared and lost and helpless, and Rafael hushes her as he works his way down her belly, murmuring nonsense words, comforting words.

She’s inhaling in ragged heaves, her lungs aching, her nipples swollen and tingling. She jumps when she feels Rafael’s tongue laving her pussy, and, fuck, she’s so sloppy, wicked and dirty and loving it, afraid of it, _loving_ it.

Stiles turns her head to see the glass panels along the walls reflecting her, rumpled and ravished, with her headmaster between her thighs, and her mascara smudged with the tracks of tears welling out of her eyes, warm and heavy, trickling to her temples. She doesn’t know why she’s crying—it feels amazing—but she’s so close to coming for a second time, and she doesn’t want to, not without Rafael in her.

She tugs at Rafael’s hair again, saying, “Do me, come on, _do_ me,” but he doesn’t budge, lapping at her clit like he’s hungry for it, like he’s starved. It’s painful by now, her glans throbbing like a wound or a sprain.

“Fuck me,” Stiles says, when she can’t take anymore, shaking and cheesed off that she’s had to ask for it, beg for it. On the plus side, she’s finally gotten through to Rafael; he seizes up and groans, so Stiles says it twice. “ _Fuck_ me.”

Rafael lets Stiles haul him up with her fists clenched in his suit. He still has his tie and tie-pin on, and Stiles has envisioned it just like this, so many times, Rafael fucking her while still in his suit, his dick hanging out of his trousers. She fumbles as she unbuckles his belt, but he doesn’t help her, his eyes fixed on hers, like he can’t look away.

Even when she takes him out—damn, he’s huge—he doesn’t look away from her.

“C-condom,” she says, “my pocket—”

“You carry condoms around on you,” Rafael rasps, disapprovingly.

“Well, yeah.” Stiles retrieves the condom from the zipped pocket in her skirt. “Shouldn’t you be encouraging me? Safe sex, and all… that,” she wavers, as Rafael takes it from her and tears the packet, putting the condom on himself. He _still_ isn’t looking away from her, and it makes Stiles feel strange, powerful and vulnerable in ways she doesn’t understand.

All she comprehends is that she can’t look away from him, either, because it would be—incomplete, or—

“Get in me, already,” she orders, and is surprised when he cups her face in a broad palm, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. The affection in that kiss is unbearable, and isn’t what she’d expected from him. It makes her cling to him, even though she despises it, because this isn’t—it isn’t—

“Stop that,” she says, so he does, but it’s too late; Stiles’s heart pounds deafeningly, the blood roaring in her ears.

When he enters her, Rafael’s eyelids flutter for an instant before he focuses on her again. He pushes into her, but it’s a gradual, inexorable glide, opening her up until her toes are curling and her nails are digging into his nape.

“Silk. You’re silk, everywhere,” he says, raggedly, and he doesn’t have to tell her that, because she can feel how buttery-smooth she is on the inside. She’s pulsing around him, molten and greedy and wetter than she’s ever been, and she wants him to bloody well _give_ it to her.

She gets up on her elbows to watch him sliding in and out her, his cock glossy with her juices and getting glossier. Stiles fingers her clit as she watches it, because seeing herself get fucked makes it even better.

“Do you like watching me give it to you?” Rafael says, and in answer, Stiles locks her ankles behind his back and tilts her hips up, trying to get him to go faster. His pace is frustratingly deliberate, measured and steady. There’s a knot deep within her that flares with every thrust, hotter and hotter, and it’s like she’s kindling, a match on the verge of being struck.

“I’d like it even more if you _fucked_ me,” Stiles says, “instead of taking a stroll through the goddamn park.”

Rafael makes a curious sound—half-laugh and half-moan—and complies, speeding up at last. Stiles’s head falls back as she lets herself be moved on the desk, papers rustling as she disturbs them. Her breasts bounce with each brutal thrust, the friction setting her alight from within.

She’s at the mercy of a man much bigger than her, taken apart by a pleasure so intense that it wracks her like agony, a lightning that sears through her. She ends up clawing at him just like she’d promised, convulsing as she comes and comes and _comes_ , her mind shutting down. She’s distantly conscious of Rafael slamming into her, and she blacks out momentarily, because when she returns to her senses, Rafael is slumped over her, thoroughly winded, gulping in air.

Stiles is wrung out, exhausted, but she’s glowing with a satisfaction so total that she relishes Rafael’s weight on her, rather than feeling smothered, like she usually does.

Rafael kisses her, and she allows it, despite not generally being in favor of sentimentality.

“The pastor said that bad girls go to hell,” Stiles muses aloud, “but we get to heaven, in our own way.” She nuzzles Rafael’s hair lazily. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Because you’re seventeen, and my student.” Rafael is apparently returning to his senses, as well, because he’s evidently appalled at himself. “God, you’re _seventeen_ —”

“I’ll be eighteen in three months.”

“Then I won’t see you for three months.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Rafael gets up and off her, tying up the condom and throwing it into the fancy mechanized trashcan, tossing in a few tissues on top of the condom, ostensibly to hide it. “I,” Rafael says, “am not kidding you.”

“Maybe I’ll get what I need from Peter Hale.”

Rafael glowers. “I’ll have him fired.”

“Wow, you’re such a hypocrite. Will _you_ resign?”

“If I touch you again before you’re eighteen, yes. I will.”

“You’re a stick-in-the-mud. Whatever happened to the man that was fucking me like an animal a while ago?”

“I’m the adult, here. The buck stops with me. What I did was—” Rafael sinks into his chair, wiping the sweat off his forehead with yet another tissue, not meeting Stiles’s eyes. It’s fucking offensive, is what it is, that he won’t meet her eyes after _looking_ at her like that while they were— 

“What you did was fun, for the both of us. Why can’t we just have fun?”

“Because it’s statutory rape.”

“In that case, whoops! Been there, done that.”

“Miss Stilinski—”

“Stiles.”

“Miss Stilinski,” Rafael perseveres, doggedly, “you’re going to go home, take a shower, and forget this ever happened.”

“You’re a coward, like the rest of ’em,” Stiles spits out, truly outraged now, the afterglow ruined by Rafael’s idiocy. “You’re all about fucking me, but when you get off, it’s like I’m a piece of gum stuck to your shoe.”

Rafael’s brow furrows. “Rest of them?”

Stiles sneers. “You got it. The _rest_. You’re all the same. I thought you weren’t a dumb li’l boy, but you aren’t more grown up than any of them.”

“If… If you were legal and not my student, I would—”

“Save it for someone who cares.” Stiles dodges Rafael when he tries to capture her hand. She pulls on her panties, buttons her shirt with jerky motions, and tidies herself up, so she doesn’t resemble the used-up slut she feels like. “Fuck you. Or not, I guess.”

With that, she hurtles out of the office, her bag slung over her shoulder and her teeth gritted. Oh, she’s going to make him pay for this. He’ll be forced to take back every selfish, cruel thing he said. Will he be able to avoid her for three months? Forget scratching his car; she’ll _destroy_ it. It’ll belong in a junkyard. He’ll have to call her to his office, and then she’ll—

She’ll teach him everything he’s taught her. Ten times over.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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